by Morton Bain
To my relief, I discover the house is empty. After using the bathroom I go straight to the kitchen, helping myself to a half pint of port. I down it in two gulps. After that I go up to my study and pocket the revolver hidden at the bottom of my toolbox. I retrieve mine and the kids’ passports from a filing cabinet, then go into Chanda’s room and grab hers from the top shelf of a chest-of-drawers. Anything else I might need? I decide to pick up my laptop. I go back down to the kitchen, take another slug of port, and leave the house.
I drive back to the hotel. I nod at the sleepy member of staff manning the reception area and make my way to the lift. Third floor, ping, and I’m out on my landing, destination room 213. I’m about to swipe myself in when I notice that the room the kids and Chanda are in, 215, is open a crack. Puzzled, I push the door fully open. The lights are on, but there’s no-one in their beds. I check the toilet, just in case they’ve decided to have a communal bath; the bathroom is empty.
‘What the fuck?’ I say. I pull my mobile out of my pocket and dial Chanda’s number. The call goes straight through to voicemail. I check my room just in case they’re there. They’re not, and in a panic I run towards the lift. Reception seems to be my only chance of finding out what’s happened.
The guy on reception doing the graveyard shift looks up at me guiltily when I approach the desk. Probably been looking at porn, I think to myself. ‘Did a woman and two young children leave just now?’ I ask.
‘Yes, they left about ten minutes ago,’ he replies. ‘They were with a man.’
‘Fuck! What did the man look like?’
‘A big guy. Black, with dreads.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘No, he definitely wasn’t Jesus Christ,’ the receptionist says.
I glare at him. ‘I think this guy might have been abducting them. Did they look scared?’
‘Not really . . . Abducted? Do you want me to call the police?’
‘That’s okay. I need to be sure about this before ringing them. Thanks anyway.’
I go back up the Chanda’s room and take a closer look. There’s no sign of a struggle, though that isn’t altogether surprising as I wouldn’t have struggled against Courtney either. How the fuck did he figure out where we are? I wonder. And why take them away? He could have just stayed in the room and waited for me to turn up. As they know where I’m staying should I check out? I figure there’s no need to, as they presumably want the kids more than me. I suppose I could just go home. I pick up the phone to try and ring Courtney, then think better of it and throw it onto the bed. They’ll call me when they’re ready, and I might even be able to strengthen my hand my not appearing perturbed at my kids’ abduction.
I decide to pay Jake a visit. It’s been long overdue. I don’t know what I’m going to do or say when I get there; I just know it’s time to see him. I re-pack the bag Chanda brought, check I haven’t left anything in my room, then leave the hotel.
I feel a sense of calm as I drive the seven or so miles to Jake’s house. The roads are quiet; the wind that had been gusting while it was raining has now abated.
Despite the ungodly hour, Jake answers the door shortly after I ring the bell.
‘Hello, Jake,’ I say. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘It has been,’ Jake replies. Looking at my former friend I can see the passage of years evident in his appearance. His hair has flecks of gray, the skin puckered around the eyes. It’s still him, though; still the Jake I used to run with.
‘Can we talk?’ I ask.
‘The gun in your pocket suggests I don’t have much choice in the matter,’ Jake replies, opening the door fully and standing back to let me enter.
Jake leads me into the living room and we both take a seat. ‘So,’ I say, ‘Congratulations on your efforts so far. I can’t say I blame you . . .’
Jake rubs his nose. It’s a small, pert little nose that I always used to think would look better on a woman’s face. ‘I don’t blame myself, either,’ he says. ‘So what, have you come to shoot me now?’
I pull the gun out of my pocket and drop it on the floor. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m done with killing. I came to ask you if you know what’s happened to my kids and housekeeper.’
‘No. Why would I?’
‘They’ve been abducted by your new pal.’
‘Courtney?’
‘The one and only.’
‘I’d have thought he’d be more interested in you than them.’
‘So would I. They obviously want to get to me through them. Tell me, why didn’t you just go to the police? Why contact Courtney?’
‘Why?’ Jake chuckles. ‘Because I wanted to fuck with you. I know enough to put you in prison any time I like. I thought I’d have a bit of fun with you first. I’ve had a lot of years to think about revenge – it’s something I’ve wanted to savour. Don’t think picking up that gun and shooting me will make any difference, either. There’s a letter lodged with my solicitor. The day a doctor signs my death certificate is day the letter’s opened and its contents communicated to the police.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘It’s what I deserve. I’m not really bothered about what happens to me. I just want my kids back safely.’
‘How did Courtney find out that you knew I’d been in contact with him?’ Jake asks. ‘He said he and your other friend were going to need a while to figure out how to use the information that I gave them.’
‘I’ve been watching your house, buddy. You were next on my list. Was staking out your place to see what your comings and goings were when that big git turned up. Couldn’t fucking believe it. Thought it might have been coincidence at first. That you were bum chums or something. In the end I drugged Courtney and got the truth out of him that way. Stuff I used is meant to wipe your memory, but I guess I didn’t give him enough or something. He spilled the beans, but must have remembered talking.’
‘And now they know you know what they know they think you’re going to kill them or something.’
‘More likely they think you’re going to squeal to the police yourself, and when I’m nicked I’ll open my mouth. I don’t know, I give up.’ I stretch languorously. ‘For what it’s worth I’m sorry about what I did to you. If I stay alive long enough I’ll tell the police that I left that johnny in the bed.’
‘It doesn’t change the fact that I killed someone.’ A pause. ‘You finally seen the light? Have the scales fallen from your eyes?’
‘Maybe.’
We fall into silence for a while, before I ask, ‘How many murders do you know I committed?’
‘Including or excluding your wife?’
‘Whichever . . .’
‘The only one I know about for a fact is Kim Catcheside, because I followed you there and photographed you creeping around her property. I did some research on unsolved murders in the area, and noticed a lot of them seemed to happen pretty close to where you live. One involved a friend of a member of your congregation. The clincher was that you’ve been dubbed the “Snooker Ball Killer”.’
‘Congrats. Maybe if you hadn’t been locked up you could have been gainfully employed locking other people up. Tell me, did you follow me to Vigo?’
‘To where?’
‘To Vigo, in Spain.’
‘Never been there in my life. Why do you think I have?’
‘I was sure I saw you a couple of times when I was there recently.’
‘Probably your guilty conscience . . .’
I stare down at the gun lying on the carpet. ‘Well look, if you don’t want to shoot me – and I’d understand if you did – I think I’m going to go and ponder my next step.’
‘I’d love to shoot you, mate. Problem is, I know what it’s like to spend time inside, and I’m never going back there . . . I think your day of reckoning is coming without me having to put a piece of lead in you.’
‘You’re probably right,’ I say. ‘I’ve been a fucking cunt for most of my life, but something’s happened recently . . . I don�
��t really understand it but I feel different. It doesn’t really make sense, but I feel as if instead of becoming a better person I’ve become a different person. If you’re still intent on getting revenge on me it’s too late; I’m not that person anymore.’
As I walk the hallway to Jake’s front door my consciousness seems to split into three. It’s not just that I seem to be seeing three doors in front of me, but that with each view of the door I have a different mind accompanying it. With one I feel relieved, with the second I have a mild headache and with the third I’m remembering a house I used to live in that had been painted a similar colour as that of the hallway walls, a light peach. It’s a disconcerting sensation. As I reach out to turn the door handle I see three hands extending to grasp three handles. They all connect at the same time, and three doors open to three black nights. I shake my head and suddenly I’m down to two consciousness tracks, then there’s a flashing sensation on the periphery of my vision, and suddenly I seem to be confronted with an infinite number of sensory inputs and associated thoughts. It’s sensory overload and I’m forced to close my eyes for a few seconds. There’s no way I can drive in this state. I grope my way to my car, feeling for the door handle, and somehow get myself into the vehicle. I sit in the car, looking out the front window. There’s an infinite amount of information being fed into my brain. I see a tarmacked road, a tarmacked road with a pot-hole about ten yards ahead, instead of a tarmacked road a rough dirt track; but that’s just the beginning: there’s a countless number of variations on this theme, overlaid one on top of the other, each associated with a unique mood and consciousness. I feel like I have about ten seconds before the fuses of my mind are blown and I succumb to a madness for which there’ll never be a cure. I climb onto the backseat and close my eyes. Although the visual input disappears I can still feel a billion minds intermingling and chattering concurrently. The Billion Mes become deafening; it feels as if my skull can’t possibly contain the pressure building within it. Just when I feel I’m sure to explode I lose consciousness.
When I come to, dawn has broken. I seem to have a unitary consciousness – which relieves me to the verge of tears – but I feel its presence is shaky; like a muscle that was cramping and has now relaxed but is quivering, on the verge of contracting again. I think about knocking on Jake’s door again and asking to sit with him for a while, but instead decide to go home. I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
I’m still feeling shaky and on the verge of another collapse into multi-consciousness as I open the front door of my house. I don’t care if there’s someone waiting for me inside the property; a gun-totting Courtney holds no terror for me after the madness of the last few hours. I walk into the living room and flop into an armchair. I wonder if maybe I’m having some sort of mental breakdown. Could I have developed schizophrenia? I wonder. If smoking too much dope can bring it on, then surely smoking five or six people has to be in with a chance of being a causal factor. Maybe my nerves are just shot.
I go into the kitchen and grab the bottle of port that has been comforting me over the last week. There isn’t much left so I drink from the bottle, draining it in three gulps. I find another unopened bottle of the same grog and pop its cork. I carry this with me back to the living room. I retake my seat, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. I open my eyes after a few minutes and see three of Ben’s green plastic army men standing guard on the arm of the sofa. Keep ‘em locked and loaded boys.
My mobile rings. As soon as my fingers contact it in my pocket my consciousness splits into two. Two hands pull two phones out of two pockets and lift them up to eye level. In one reality channel the display says ‘Courtney’, whilst in the other it says ‘Number Withheld’. Both phones are answered simultaneously, with the same “Hello” and then the replies come back. From Courtney: ‘we need to meet’; from Detective Ringer: ‘this is Detective Ringer, wanting to speak to Mr Cuthbert.’
Courtney Track (Me): ‘What have you done with the kids and Chanda?’
Ringer Track (Me): ‘Yes, speaking.’
Courtney Track: ‘That’s what I’m ringing about. We need to meet, sort this all out.’
Ringer Track: ‘I haven‘t received that email you promised me. You were going to let me know about the Jakes you know or have known.’
Courtney Track (Me): ‘What the fuck have you done with them? If any of them are hurt you’re going to fucking die.’
Ringer Track (Me): ‘Sorry, no I haven’t sent it yet. You’ll get it in the next couple of hours.’
Courtney Track: ‘They’re fine. They’re doing well. Can we meet tomorrow? We need to talk about this stupid shit. Smooth things over.’
Ringer Track: ‘If you could do that, I would appreciate it. We may need to pop over for another chat in the next few days. I take it you wouldn’t be adverse to that?’
Courtney Track (Me): ‘You want to meet up so you can put a bullet in my head? Yeah, I’ll meet you. There’s a police station off City Road. Meet me in the reception area tomorrow at ten am. Make sure you’ve got one of the kids with you. You’ll need to hand a kid over as a sign of good faith.’
Ringer Track (Me): ‘That’s not a problem. Just let me know.’
Courtney Track: ‘I’ll need to call you back about the meet. Keep your phone on.’
Ringer Track: ‘Okay, I’ll be in touch. Bye.’
Courtney Track (Me): ‘Okay.’
Ringer Track (Me): ‘Bye.’
Two hands kill two phone calls. I feel dizzy, despite being seated. Two Adams stand up and take in two superimposed views of the room. With one I’m looking off to the right; with the other I’m gazing leftwards. I don’t know what to do. I wonder whether I should ring 999/go for a walk and try and get some fresh air. Both Adams remember that I haven’t showered in a couple of days, and we both walk upstairs to the bathroom. That’s when things start to get really freaky. We both undress, but then one of us – I don’t know if it’s Courtney Track or Ringer Track – starts to run a bath, while the other one turns the shower on and gets into the cubicle. Have you ever leaned over a bath, testing for water temperature, while at the same time soaping yourself up under a warm spray? Once the bath is run we both close our eyes. One of the mes climbs into the bath while the other continues to stand under the shower in blackness. We know this split will probably fade, that unitary consciousness is going to come back pretty soon, but the longer it lasts the more scared we feel.
We get out of the bath/shower at the same time. We’re intermingled, sharing the same space as we dry off. One of us is using the towel I customarily use, the other a pink towel Lucy favours. After drying off we both dress in the same clothes – a second pair seems to clone itself with ease. We both walk downstairs and knock back the whole of the newly opened bottle of port in one. There’s a ten second delay before we both feel well pissed. After the disorientation of the last half hour being pissed doesn’t feel as out of control as it would normally – in fact there’s something comfortingly familiar about the sensation.
We split up at this point. One Adam decides it isn’t safe to stay in the house. He goes upstairs, grabs a sleeping bag, then gets into the car and drives to a pub about two miles away. It has a car park at the rear that tends to be half empty, which he parks in. He buys two bottles of cheap red from an off licence opposite the pub – bottles with screw tops – then goes and sits in the car. He starts drinking, figuring another bottle will lead him to pass out, guaranteeing at least some respite from the fear his current state is generating.
The other Adam goes upstairs and gets into bed. He switches on the radio that’s on his bedside table and starts listening to the BBC World Service, hoping the feature on agriculture in Kazakhstan will distract him. It’s quite an interesting report, but he’s simultaneously aware of holding a wine bottle to his lips and then getting annoyed when he spills some red wine down his shirt. Both Adams start to cry. In due course car-park-Adam drinks himself into oblivion. Home-in-bed-Adam
doesn’t get respite when this happens, however, as instead of getting the feed from the car he gets a dream feed. And the dream feed is a bad one; nightmares of a huge Courtney stamping across the city, looking for him with a gun. In the dream Courtney is so big the roofs of houses come up to his ankles. His feet crush any buildings they land on as if they were made of cardboard.
The Adam that isn’t asleep closes his eyes tight and starts to shake. Finally, sleep rescues him.
I wake up in unitary consciousness in the car. I’m relieved, so relieved to be just me – or just one me. Then I start panicking. Do I have another body that’s lying untended in my bed? Did Courtney bust in and shoot me in bed? I rub my eyes before starting the car. It’s dark. My watch says it’s four in the morning, but I don’t know if several hours or several days have gone by since I passed out. My head hurts. It can’t have been several days.
I tear out of the car park, tyres screeching, and drive as fast as I dare back to the house. I don’t so much park the car when I reach my destination as execute a controlled crash. The front bumper of the vehicle smacks the garage door with enough force to dent it. I open the door and jump out. Fumbling with my keys I let myself in and run up to my bedroom. Throwing myself through the doorway I’m both alarmed and relieved to see there isn’t anyone in my bed. Oddly, the bed doesn’t look as if it’s been slept in.
A thought occurs to me that makes my throat tighten. What if another ‘me’ is at this moment standing in the car park I’ve just come from, wondering where ‘I’ am. Which ‘me’ is the real one? Does unitary consciousness mean the other track has disappeared, or are we both alive simultaneously but no longer aware of each other? Oh, fuck. My only consolation is the relief of just having to put up with the one feed of awareness. Why does my consciousness keep spitting and then returning to normal? I would go the doctor straight away, but I’m sure they would section me, and I can’t have that with Chanda and the kids in the predicament they’re in.
Thinking of Chanda makes me realise how much I miss her. If she were here right now she’d say something to make me feel better. It probably wouldn’t make any sense, but it would definitely make me feel better . . .